And then there were two …

Ok, anybody who read the last entry (or has a grain of sense) knew I was dreading this whole gym thing, yeah?

Well, I couldn’t let them think they’d won. So with about half an hour to go, I put on my workout clothes & sprayed down the relevant joints (my knees no longer consent to leave the house with me if the car is pointed at the gym unless I hit them up with Orthogel; because they’re just that user friendly!) grabbed my keys & gloves and stepped out into the Atlanta Broil.

It’s hot here, people. No screwing around. And there sat my little car, in the sun, all damn day. Marinating, and waiting with the automotive version of a baleful glare as the paint bubbled. I finally stopped yelping and cursing about halfway to the gym; not because things in the car were no longer hot, but because all my nerve endings had been turned into the palm-sized version of curly fries. Drove straight into rush hour traffic, and sat. And cooked. And muttered strangled profanities periodically to keep myself amused while I waited for people to figure out that whole complex ‘driving’ idea.

I pulled up at the gym to a mostly empty parking lot. That momentary thrill of victory washed over me. You know the one. You crossed the finish line first, even though no one else knew they were racing, right? No? Well, screw it. Don’t dwell on it. Move along.

It wasn’t until I shoved my hands into my gloves and headed into the gym that I realized that all the lights were off. It was open, there was one or two guys multitasking .. texting while they used the leg lift, because you can’t get a ticket yet for that. I looked back into the office and the light there was on, and one of the huge guys that runs the place was back there eating something that was probably good for him and surfing the web. Neither the wife unit or the trainer unit was there yet, so I wandered over to the recumbent bike and started putting my front end work in. I actually liked it in there with the lights off, for a multitude of reasons. Not the least of which was the illusion it gave that it was actually less than the temperature of the southwest quadrant of the sun outside. I’d burned out about half a mile on the bike when the wife unit pulled up; she was still in work clothes and started her cardio with a mad sprint to the bathroom to change into her workout gear. She jumped on the treadmill beside me and we grunted back and forth. We were both determined to be there.

The only one who wasn’t, was the trainer unit. About 20 after, I went back to the office and asked HugeDude if he happened to know where she might be. He in fact did not, but said he would call her and see if he could track her down. He finally did, and brought his cellphone out and handed it to the wife unit so that they could work it out amongst themselves. A wise man, HugeDude.

Turns out she’d forgotten us.

I’m not sure if I want to be disappointed, or buy her a cookie. It’s like having someone come in to do a prostate exam and then snap the gloves off with a bright smile and say ‘Just kidding! Here, take this $20.’

You didn’t have to do something heinous, and it’s not even your fault. No one can begrudge you. That always rocks.

You too can feel like a video game survivor!

Jumped in the shower this morning as hot as I could take it.

Because when I got up, I couldn’t move SHIT.

My thighs woke me up, and once I’d experienced the spasmodic pain of standing upright, the shower was the only thing beyond 4 Tylenol that I could think of. It actually did help, a little. I’ve been trying to move the stuff that’s most angry (my triceps immediately leap to mind) and feel slightly less like I just survived a Halo drive by.

The happy news? (yes, I’m being sarcastic) is because of the wife unit’s schedule this week, we had to take the reschedule for our Thursday appt to today, wiping out my day of rest between.
Yes, the whimper you just heard was me.

How can I do ANYTHING at the gym today? Holy shit.

However – in the ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’ department … I caught my reflection in the monitor this morning, and I saw a muscle in my forearm that i haven’t seen in like 2 years. Seriously. My eyes about popped outta my head. Some form of cautious optimism is taking hold, despite my best efforts.

It’s good to have goals

And isn’t it interesting how as we progress in life, the goals we find and set for ourselves sometimes don’t really resemble the goals we had when we were younger at all?

Was finishing up a set of pelvic thrusts (and women wonder why men fall asleep after sex?) and heading for the next set of torture for my lats when my trainer chimes out some form of encouragement about the previous set of thrusts. As I was grabbing for the bar she said ‘…and pretty soon we’ll be able to bounce a quarter off your butt!’

I can’t remember that ever being a goal of mine in the past; but now that I’m past 40? I had to admit being able to bounce a quarter off my ass had a certain charm to it. At least she didn’t threaten to short-sheet me.

The other highlight of the workout came along while we were doing some variation of hammer curls. The wife unit let her weights down and the trainer turned and said ‘How many was that?’

‘Ten’ said the unsuspecting wife unit.

The trainers’ head snapped around and she looked incredulous. ‘Doubleyew Tee Ef?!’

Yeah, I cracked up.

Upped my sets to 25, keeping it at three per so far. Hammer curls, open dumbell flies, the variation on hammer curls. Lat pulldowns and pec flies. And way more weighted crunches than I even wanted to know about this morning. Also those evil freakin’ crunches where you rotate right and left at the apex. Fuck those. I really don’t wanna take those bastards out out to a movie.  Added a couple pounds on both dumbells and machines. Upped my cardio to 7 minutes on front and back ends, so up to not quite 15 min. That crap ain’t funny. I’m all about using the big ball for crunches and curls, though. It stabilizes my core so my neck doesn’t scream til the neighbors call the cops.

Because of the wife unit’s schedule this week, we’re going back tomorrow. Usually I get a day off between, so my body can recuperate; not this time. When we were trying to hash out the change for Wednesday, and it was mentioned we’d have to ride separately because of the tightness between work and the gym the trainer eyed me sideways. I finally said ‘What?’ and she made a noise and said ‘You better come!’ I made a scandalized sound and said ‘What?! If I’m not supervised you think I won’t show up?!’

Sheesh. Oh ye of little faith. I only thought about escaping a little bit. Not enough to actually make a break for it, though.

Adding injury to insult …

I was just sitting here, sucking down a bottle of G3 after getting home from the gym. I was thinking .. hey, once the urge to projectile vomit passed, I feel pretty good on the whole.  I was actually stripping down to hit the shower, and in bending and extending my arm to drop my jockstrap, I set off a chain reaction somewhere.

Like a butterfly flapping it’s wings.

The party started in my traps. Then the conga line caught up with my delts, and the whole fandango stopped by to pick up my triceps and drag them along for the ride. I am relatively sure I let out a little scream of pain, as the cramp shuttled from point A to point C from the base of my neck to the tips of my fingers. I made the mistake of grabbing for it, which inspired the whole left side to start groovin’ with the right; and I’m pretty darn sure the limping, hopping, howling little dance I did around my bathroom would have been hilarious had it been happening to anyone else. I would have pointed and laughed, undoubtedly. I would have hit rewind, and watched it again, I’m sure of it. This is the wages of schadenfreude. That instant karmic smackdown that fate delivers to let you know it isn’t nice to mock people in pain.

Did three sets of crunches on the big ball.  Three sets of curls. And three sets of something that I don’t even know what they’re called. It involved dumbbells (no, not me and the other gymrats, the actual weights) and a range of motion I foolishly thought I possessed. My unbridled optimism needs a big assed tranquilizer dart and about a 42 hour nap. Cardio on the front and back end, as usual. And weirdly, I didn’t feel like puking until after I’d stopped, and was halfway to the car.

But I’m taking this as progress; the last few times I’ve left the gym I didn’t feel like puking at all. Which I’m pretty sure my trainer would translate as ‘… Oh! Well, we’ll have to add more weight, then!’ I think she’s got a fetish for bald guys that look a little green around the gills. This is pure speculation on my part, but I have my suspicions.

Now that the muscular riot bears less resemblance to the prison upheaval from the first season of Oz, I’mma go (carefully) jump in the shower.

If I can do this, YOU can do this. There’s enough foolishness to go around for everyone.

…low five!…

I like my trainer. Well, usually. You know what I mean.

She’s intelligent, in a dangerous sort of way. She thinks on her feet, which is much of the reason I now make muffled noises of pain while trying to accomplish simple things like yawning, or scratching my head.

But the nice thing about it is that we’ve been at this long enough that we’re getting to laugh a little bit; which always makes pain easier to take. (And no, that is not a veiled plea to be topped by a standup comedian. Get your mind out of the gutter.)

Worked mostly upper body yesterday, and got to play on two of my favorite machines in the entire gym. If you don’t count those bizarre crunch things she kept trying to make me do, I had a great time at the gym this time around. One of the other things I like about the trainer is that she pays attention, even when she’s doing other things. She was working with the wife unit when I finished a set; managed to get out the last few reps without assistance, which is always a happy thing. As the weights settled back into place, she held up her hand and said ‘Good job!’ indicating a high five was forthcoming. I tried to lift my arm to meet it, but my arm remained gasping in my lap, unable to rise, as it were, to the occasion. Without missing a beat she dropped her hand and laughed ‘..low five!’ which I did indeed manage to accomplish.

She always likes to leave me with the illusion that my limbs still work. At least until I get home.

“..that’s a whole different muscle group …”

Ow.

The gym was yesterday. The trainer kicked my ass. As I sit here grumbling, my lats and pecs are pissed, and they’ve been known to hold a grudge. Did I say ‘Ow’ already? Let me say it again. Fucking Ow.

Rows. More crunches, in different and more painful positions. Upped the bike time to 6 min on front and back end. Curls, where I foolishly admitted I could do more weight. Ow. By the end of the third sets, I needed both hands to lift my water bottle to my mouth. One to actually grip it, the other to push it the rest of the way since I could no longer lift my arms. If my eyeball had popped out of my head, I couldn’t even have made a grab for it.

There are times when I leave the gym and actually don’t feel like puking; and there are times when I am completely in control of all extremities that I currently possess. There are even times when I don’t find myself asking … ‘Uh .. am I about to fall down?’. This was not one of those times.

As I watched her put new forms of torture to the wife unit, she chimed out enthusiastically ‘…Only 10 more seconds! You can do anything for ten seconds!’ The wife unit grunted and replied ‘…I could flip you off for ten seconds.’  The trainer smiled brightly and said ‘You probably could! But that uses a whole different muscle group than we’re working today!”

Undoubtedly why it was still possible to accomplish it, I’m thinkin’.

The fact remains, though .. I did notice some definition (albeit bitter and angry and unwilling to work with me at all) beginning to move around under my skin. Like a teaser, or a freebie. It’s almost enough to make me want to go back.

Almost.

“..go for the kidneys..”

Talk about a catch-22.

You know the drill; your trainer holds the pad about waist height (or, hey, in my case, higher) and you knock the hell out of it with your knees. When I got this task, I was thinking .. hey! This reminds me of drills at the dojo! It made me homesick for just a second; and reminded me how much I missed martial arts.

But now, let’s talk motivation. My trainer seemed to be in a pretty good mood this last go-round. She was cracking me up when she wasn’t making me delirious with those damned weighted crunches. (I’m developing a love/hate relationship with that machine, and although we might not make it long term, I’m sure there’s a palimony agreement in our future. I’m just sayin’.) While trying to give me the proper motivation for continuing to raise my knees with extreme force to some level around my freakin’ ears, she uttered: ‘Come on! Just like … like you’re kneeing somebody in the balls. Harder!’  I explained that I had some measure of natural resistance to this mindset, and perhaps did not find it as gratifying or inspiring as say, a woman might. Then she offered ‘…Ok! Well, pretend you’re kicking me, then! Only, of course, don’t kick me for real.’

I am relatively sure my face must have displayed that moment of indecision clearly. Do you really want your trainer thinking you take motivational pleasure in the concept of kneeing her like a flashback to an episode of Cheaters? Besides, it was way too early in the session to want to knee her that hard. By the time I really did want to knee her that hard, I couldn’t have lifted my legs with enough momentum to really accomplish it at all.

Apparently, though, I met with a modicum of success, and she seemed pleased. She mentioned that I had exceeded her expectations. I heartily agreed. I’d exceeded my own; albeit my groin muscles were not nearly as enthusiastic about the whole endeavor as we were theoretically. By the second set, I swear she was raising the pad, but she absolutely swore she wasn’t. I have to admit, though, that her exhortation to ‘..go for the kidneys!’ did indeed inspire me for those last couple of reps.

Worked obliques, did weighted crunches, flung the kettle ball around. Just because something is pink does not mean it won’t hurt you. I resolved to pick up gloves that afternoon, as the kettle ball slipped in my grip by the end of the first set. Which, of course, made me clutch it more tightly; which, of course, made it hurt even more than it did initially.  Yeah. Gloves. That’s the ticket.

Three sets of obliques; three sets of weighted crunches; three sets with the kettle ball, three sets with the pads. Finished out the day with my regular gig on the recumbent bike. (Five minutes warmup when I get there, five minutes cooldown before I step back into the blast furnace that is Atlanta at the moment.) As I staggered down the hall with my brain percolating in sweat, I longed to revisit that ‘Pretend you’re kicking me’ part; alas I was no longer able to accomplish what might have been my fondest goal of the workout.

There’s always next time.